


Paper Cranes

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, How Do I Tag, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Pining Draco Malfoy, angst I guess?, angsty Harry, draco is writing his feelings down, draco malfoy writes, harry has post war traumas, harry is angsty, he is actually a good writer, he may or may not have a teeny crush on malfoy, ill add more tags as i write
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:47:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24477436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When talking with someone about his feelings isn’t an option, Draco writes.He writes letters, poems, stories.That’s what he’s doing now; poured over a sheet of parchment, his good quill in his hand, he’s spilling his soul out onto the paper.OrDraco Malfoy has feelings for Harry Potter and writes everything concerning them down on paper.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first harry potter fanfiction. and it can be read as a one-shot but my original idea was to make it a multi-chapter story. tell me what you think and if i should continue it!

He used to be obsessed with Potter.  
Truth be told, he still is.  
Draco would stare at him in class, pretending he was bored, or he would sneak glances towards his place at the Gryffindor table, he would bump into him in hallways and start arguments and squabbles. Only coming in close contact when trading punches.  
But now, looking at him, watching him, isn’t enough. And he does not dare provoke him anymore. He’s not sure if he’s more scared of getting expelled, hexed by his friends and fans, or what Potter might say or do.  
It’s been two days since he arrived at Hogwarts, yet he feels all of his emotions churning inside him. It’s Potter’s fault, it really is. Because if he wasn’t so good, so pure and so beautiful Draco would never have these problems at all. And when talking with someone about his feelings isn’t an option, Draco writes.  
He writes letters, poems, stories.  
That’s what he’s doing now; poured over a sheet of parchment, his good quill in his hand, he’s spilling his soul out onto the paper.  
It’s good for him.  
It’s good for Draco, because when he’s writing he lets his walls crumble, he lets his words and feelings flow freely and he calms down.

It was curiosity at first.  
My father mentioned you a few times, and whenever he did I would ask him to tell me more; I would ask about your name, your age, where you lived, your story, who your friends were, what house you might be in.  
As if he’d know.  
But still I always asked him about The Boy Who Lived – The Boy With The Scar.  
Then, it turned into jealousy and anger.  
You rejected me, before you even got to know me. I had waited years to talk to you, and you didn’t take my hand.  
You chose Weasley and Granger over me.  
It was the ultimate defeat.  
Everyone liked you; they practically adored you. The worst thing was that I did too. But you hated me, and we were rivals, so I was supposed to hate you too.  
I still wonder why you didn’t want to be my friend. Was I that revolting?  
Next was the confusion.  
I enjoyed making you angry, getting under your skin, knowing I was the one to make your face so red with anger and frustration.  
But then, when the day would end and I’d be in bed, I would think about your eyes and your hair, how it could possibly feel to hold your hand.  
I hadn’t ever felt like that before.  
You made me feel things; it was scary, and it hurt, but it also fluttered in my gut and it kept me warm.  
“What is happening to me?” – I’d ask myself; I never guessed it could be love.  
Then came the regret.  
I was scared, and I did bad things.  
I was scared for my family and for myself. I did bad things because I was a coward.  
I hated it. I hated myself too.  
I was going against you. I was really, truly going against you. It wasn’t just childish fist fights anymore. It was real, oh, so real.  
And yet you somehow forgave me.  
You saved me, and forgave me.  
I never stopped loving you, though. I’d only manage to push it aside, bury it deeper inside. But my love for you was real. Still is.  
I still love you, so very much.  
It’s only sorrow now.  
It’s the quiet type of sorrow. The type that nests in your chest and weights over your shoulders, the type that closes up your lungs and slowly eats you from inside out.  
Because I am me.  
And you are you.  
And I would never get the chance to call you mine.

Once Draco is done he folds up the parchment into an origami shape.  
It sits on his desk; a delicate paper crane – empty at first glance, but inside are spilled Draco’s secrets.  
He leaves it there, as a reminder of his love for Potter.  
“As if I could ever forget it.”  
With a swish of his wand the lights are out. He climbs into his bed and falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2 is here! since i really wanted to continue the story i decided it will be a multi chapter one; although im not sure how many chapters it will contain

Harry wasn’t going to come back to Hogwarts. He really wasn’t  
But what was he going to do alone. Where was he going to stay? Did he even have a home? A house – yes, but a home – no. So he tagged along with Ron and Hermione. He came back.  
He’s not quite sure why he’s still here. It’s not any good for him; Hogwarts is no longer a welcoming place. Not to him at least.  
Harry still feels the fear from when he first saw Voldemort’s face, he feels the heat of the philosopher’s stone in his pocket and the cold stare from the back of his professor’s head. He sees Ginny’s limp body on the cold floor in the Chamber of Secrets, the Dementors and how it felt to have your soul sucked out. He sees green light shooting towards Cedric at the Triwizard tournament, Sirius falling through the veil, he still feels Voldemort’s presence in the back of his mind and feels words imprinting themselves on his skin – “I must not tell lies”. The pull and hum of the horcruxes still tugs at his chest and he still sees Hermione and Ron all bruised up, scabby with him hiding in a forest. He still feels like he’s dying all over again, after every nightmare. His scar doesn’t hurt at least.  
He’s not okay.  
But Harry doesn’t know what to do and doesn’t know if it will ever be okay. So he’s still at Hogwarts.  
He goes through the motions robotically; he eats, he goes to class, he does his homework, he walks around the castle ignoring the whispers and stares pointed at him, and he tries to sleep.  
Two weeks in, Harry still doesn’t know why he’s here. He can leave; Hermione told him so. But he doesn’t and won’t. There’s no reason at all. He can’t think for himself, not really. And he’s glad his friends give him space, but they can’t understand.  
Everyone is dealing with the aftermath of the war; but Harry has seen and done more than some could ever imagine. So he doesn’t talk, because words just don’t leave his mouth. In the past few days he’s only said “no”, “yes”, and “I don’t know”.

When in the middle of transfiguration the door opens he doesn’t think much of it. But a faint familiar scent catches his attention and all his eyes fixate on a figure – slim, but well built, now pretty lanky, almost underfed, and silvery white hair, its shine now lost. Harry doesn’t dare look into the person’s eyes; but he knows them very well.  
Then all he can see is the small boy, posh, prim and proper in a robe’s shop, the one which sometimes was more important than Voldemort himself. He sees their duels, their spats, the insults traded back and forth all those years. And he sees his face, all grown up – sharp edges – in Myrtle’s bathroom mirror. He sees his empty eyes and the tears running down his face, he hears the sobs echo from the walls and he sees red; a gash on his chest.  
So he hangs his head low and doesn’t dare look at him again.  
Draco Malfoy sits down right behind Harry.  
And Harry feels him whenever he moves. He can’t concentrate. However, instead of hazy he is now super alert.  
He’s not sure if he likes where this is headed.

The whole day Harry has to come up with reasons not to stare at Malfoy. So he occasionally glances towards him. And when they bump into each other in the hallway both are quiet. Harry expects an insult, but all he gets is a cold stare, emotionless, indifferent.  
And he gets angry. He gets angry because he hoped at least that he could do, he was good at it. He wants to squabble with Malfoy like they used to do; because that’s what they did. It was their thing. But even that has changed and is confusing.  
Everything is confusing.  
Besides anger he feels sorrow and regret; he sometimes wishes things could be different between them.  
Maybe if Malfoy wasn’t such a git, or if his father wasn’t Voldemort’s follower. Maybe then things would be better.  
And he also feels something else. It’s something in his gut; it feels dangerous. He’s felt it before, he knows now, but Harry is not sure what that feeling is and so he leaves it at that. Perhaps it’s what happens when you see your enemy after saving him from a fire. Perhaps.

When he goes to the eight year common room along with Ron that night, he doesn’t stay, not even to ensure his friends he’s okay. He ignores Ginny’s call and goes up to his room.  
His dreams are haunted by gleaming blond hair, silver eyes and in his dreams he hears a word; it’s the only word he can make out and remember – “Sectumsempra”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading it <3  
> should i write more chapters?


End file.
